


Two Hands to Hold

by AngryPeaches



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-up Yuri, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Punk bands, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The Russian Punk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9314999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryPeaches/pseuds/AngryPeaches
Summary: "We were given two hands to hold, two eyes to see, and one incomplete heart for someone else to find."Yeah, whatever. More like two pains in my ass and two fingers to tell you to fuck off.Yuri Plisetsky, lead singer forThe Unbroken, never wanted love or a soulmate. Love makes you weak and soulmates just fuck it up for everyone involved. The bond isn't some 'rare treasure to cherish and behold', it's a fucking death sentence for your career, for your friends, for everything.Then he starts touring withEllipsand their bassist, Otabek Altin, and everything goes wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to you all, and thank you for coming here to take a read of this undoubtedly cheesy story. I just had a craving to write a soulmate AU as well as 'actual Russian punk' Yurio. 
> 
> Thank you to tulkasebore, who continues to be a treasured friend and the best pre-reader/beta/soulmate in YOI hell with me. The time and energy she puts into both reading my drafts and spamming me with YOI fanart and ficrecs is very much appreciated.
> 
> Again, I appreciate you all for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> One last note, this fic is dedicated to Mimi la Squeak. You were an adorable, bold, affectionate cat taken far too early. You are missed and very much loved.

_"Perhaps some day I'll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow." - Sylvia Plath_

“What are you drawing there, Yurochka?” Nikolai asked in his gruff tone to the small boy sprawled over a sketchpad by the fireplace. Snow struck the window panes and clung to its surface, making the soft glowing embers even more warm and inviting. The crackle of a dying fire sung with the windy creak of winter. 

Slender fingers grasped a coloured pencil, tracing and re-tracing the outline of several figures. “Just a picture,” he answered as he picked up a yellow pencil and applied it to his paper. 

Their brief exchange fell away into content silence, complemented with the turn of a page in Nikolai’s book, and the skritch of coloured pencil on paper. After a few minutes, the old man’s attention drifted from the story in his palm to his grandson as he savoured the pleasant winter evening. Moments like these were rare with the young upstart, so full of youth and energy. When Yurochka wasn’t busy destroying a guitar (and Nikolai’s eardrums), he was tearing around outside, sun or snow. 

“Would you show me when you’re finished?” The old man put a bookmark in his current place, and patted a spot next to him. 

“Yeah, I’m almost done,” Yuri assured, flipping his blond fringe out of his face. After one or two more pencil strokes, he scampered over to the couch and clambered up to his grandpa, sketch in hand. “I drew us.” He shoved the picture in front of his grandfather, gesturing to the people standing outside of a house with a smoking chimney. “There’s you, mama, and grandma. That’s me.” He pointed at each one; a good thing too, because there was little to distinguish the stick figures, aside from height and hair-length. “That’s our house.”

“It’s beautiful,” Nikolai grinned, gaze lingering on the adult couple holding hands. There it stayed as he took in the sentiment, his lips softening into a gentle smile. “Can you tell me about this, here?” He pointed at the coloured squiggle where their fingers clasped together.

“That’s yours and grandma’s Mark,” Yuri explained as he got comfy. Once settled, small hands grasped at his grandfather’s wrist, turning it over. The underside revealed an intricate design over his pulse the size of a coin, not quite a tattoo, not quite a scar. The vibrant, intertwined amber and amethyst designs were now faded with time. “Because you loved her so much,” he could give the faded blemish a small pat.

Nikolai chuckled, tired eyes watching as Yuri studied the symbol with great intent. “Yes, Yurochka. I love her very much.” 

Yuri let go of his grandpa, and turned his attention upwards. “Tell me about how you met Grandma.” 

The old man uttered a rough, low chuckle. “What, again? I’ve told you that story so many times,” Nikolai disputed, without any intent to deny his grandson. 

Before he’d finished, Yuri had already made himself comfortable against his grandfather’s side with a knitted quilt. The one Polina made for him. “I know, but I like it,” Yuri stated as a matter of fact as he tugged the quilt over his knees for better coverage. “Tell me the story, grandpa.”

Nikolai sighed, smiled, and put an arm around his grandson. “Very well. Let’s see…”

“You met her at the bakery while you were working,” Yuri began with a small yawn, all snugged up.

The interruption elicited another deep chuckle. “Hey, am I telling the story, or are you, Yurochka?” Nikolai ruffled the boy’s fine blond strands, leaving them quite the mess. Yuri uttered a disapproving grunt, but yielded to the story teller.

“I was about eighteen and she was nineteen at the time. I met her at the bakery where I worked. I was putting fresh piroshki out on the counter when she stepped into the shop.” The old man turned his attention to the dying fireplace. “I’ll never forget that moment when our eyes met. I had this feeling in my chest, like a fish caught on a hook. I couldn’t look away, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. For a split second, my whole world froze and in that moment, Yurochka, in that moment I knew she was the one.”

Nikolai smiled at the fading embers, watching them flicker and pop into the night. “I was so distracted I lost my grip on the tray I was carrying. The piroshki went everywhere, I got in so much trouble.”

Yuri grinned. “And she helped you clean them up.”

“And she helped me clean them up,” Nikolai affirmed, running his fingers through Yuri’s hair to smooth it down again. “But my boss heard the commotion, came in and said, ‘That’s it, Nikolai, I’m sending you home for the day. Get your sh— stuff together’.” Nikolai put on a mock gruff voice, the same one he used for Yurochka’s bedtime stories; but different from his usual crusty manner. 

“Not that I cared. I took your grandmother by the hand and asked her out right there. I threw off my apron and we walked arm in arm to the next bakery.” Nikolai punctuated his sentence with a quiet sigh reflected in tired eyes. “We shared a salmon piroshk although I told her mine were way better. She laughed and said I had to make her some to prove it. I always felt incredibly lucky for meeting grandma,” he uttered in a quieter murmur. “Some people aren’t so fortunate. Some people go their whole lives without meeting their other half.” 

Yuri wriggled under the quilt, burying himself further into its depths. “Not me, though. I’ll find someone, right, grandpa? When I’m older?” 

Nikolai heard the veiled anxiety in his question, and gave him another reassuring ruffle. “I’m sure you will, Yurochka. When you’re older, you just need to keep an open mind, and an open heart.” Nikolai smiled down at his grandson. “Think you can manage that?” 

Yuri returned the smile before stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. “I can manage that. Promise.” 

******

“You complete asshole, you promised!” Yuri snapped into his phone, glowering at the static picture of Victor Nikiforov’s smug face smiling up at him. “I mean, what the fuck are you doing in Japan? We’re starting our first tour in Kazakhstan next week.” 

The eighteen-year-old slammed his back against the wall outside the practice room, free hand shoved firm in his pockets. Muffled guitars and drums vibrated against him. “You _promised_ you’d come with us,” he stressed, not pouting whatsoever. Nope.

Japan bustled on the other end, people in the streets, an angry car horn. It was almost enough to drown out the shitty apology from their band manager. “Sorry, Yuri. Something really important came up.” Huh. Victor actually sounded sorry, and out of breath. “Look, I won’t be gone for that long, just for this week. Probably. I’ll be there to watch you perform.”

Yuri scoffed and kicked the wall behind him with his heel. “Whatever.” Trust Victor to make a promise on the back of a broken one. He wasn’t about to get his hopes up. Again.

“Anyway, you don’t need me cramping your style,” Victor assured in his carefree singsong. “The venue is booked, just be there a couple hours beforehand for the sound check. I’m having someone set up the merch table and deliver the gear,” Victor assured, his voice cracking with movement as he hurried down some street in Japan of all places. “You have the set list in your inbox. Make sure Anya doesn’t drink too much beforehand.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri grumbled, launching himself off of the wall. “Have fun in Japan,” he snarked. “Try not to choke on a piece of blowfish or something.” Without waiting for a goodbye, he pressed ‘end call’ and stuffed his phone into his pocket. Pft. Fucking Victor. Yuri should’ve known something would ‘come up’. He was such a fucking flake.

Yuri thrust open the practice room door, which cut the music mid-jam. Georgi’s fingers clasped the neck of his guitar to stifle the thrumming strings. “What’s up, Yuri? What did Victor want?” Concern, or maybe fear, shone behind his eyes, framed with dark eyeliner and shadow.

“Fucking nothing,” Yuri griped, brows knit hard together as he resumed his place at the microphone. “The bastard’s in Japan.” He lifted his hands to the back of his head to fix his messy blond bun, teeth gritted.

“Japan?” Mila’s painted lips tilted downward, one perfect, curious eyebrow raised. “What’s he doing in Japan?”

Yuri snorted, lifting his hand to his forehead to pat at it with the sweatband around his wrist. “’Something important’,” he mocked. “Fuck if I know,but I doubt he’ll be making it to the start of our tour.” The sweatband paused against his temple as he reconsidered that statement. “Or, hell, any of it. I have no idea.” Victor was a god damned mystery. “It’s Victor.”

Mila shrugged off their lead singer’s tension, one absent hand ticking against the edge of the high hat. “Oh. Well, we’ll be fine without him, right? He sent through the itinerary and everything yesterday.”

“Mmf.” Yuri was already not listening to any pro-Victor excuses. He pressed one earplug into his ear, eyes closed. “It’s the principle of the thing.” He’d lost count of the number of broken promises from Victor, so really he shouldn’t be surprised. At the same time, it was so fucking annoying. 

Anya tucked a lock of thick, dark hair behind her ear and readjusted the strap on her bass guitar. “Well, if he’s gone, he’s gone. Not much we can do about it now. Might as well get on with practice.” Her silent fingers danced across her bass guitar frets and back again, somewhat agitated. “We’re still sloppy on the chorus of _Guilty Cupid_. I want to get it right for this Friday.”

She turned her attention to Georgi. “I think you’re still coming in half a beat late? Or am I coming in a little early”

Their guitarist grinned and gave his head several enthusiastic shakes. “No, no, no. I’m pretty sure it’s me, Anya,” he reassured. For Yuri, it was disgustingly close to a simper. “Your fingering is perfection— Um.” Georgi’s cheeks warmed as soon as the poor choice of words left his mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it to—“

“ _Alright._ ” Yuri interrupted, second earplug poised and ready. Couples being couples was the fucking worst. “Let’s take it from the top, then.” He slid it in and took a breath as Mila clacked out the ‘One-Two-Three-Four’ with her drumsticks. On cue, Georgi dove into the first run of chords alongside Mila. The intro began in a frenzy of quick finger work before it paused at a climax. 

That was Yuri’s signal to begin.

“ _Love is a friendship, caught on fire_ ,” he sang, eyes closed, right hand clasped around the microphone. “ _A flame hot and fierce_.” Of all their numbers, this one was his favourite. “ _The butterflies and easy smiles_ ”. Yeah, he’d also written it; but he enjoyed how the music followed the lyrical narrative. 

The melody started out with this frantic, loving beck-and-call between the guitar and the bass. “ _Two souls, one beating heart._ ” Victor thought it was stupid, but what did he know? Victor was in fucking Japan. “ _But eventually it dies. Dies. Dies_.” Yuri’s narrowed gaze turned hotter still, half of it drawn from the music, half of it aimed at Victor. 

Victor couldn’t see how the upbeat intro and first verse bled away into something much different, darker, stronger. Georgi’s fingers ran down a frantic scale in the last attempt to keep the duet with Anya going. “ _Black ash around my feet and in my mouth_.” 

Georgi worked his way up the guitar’s neck, his picking growing faster as he tried to stay alive. It was raw, and it was beautiful. “ _We desire, debate, decay, and then we do it again._ ”

Yuri swayed with the beat, shoulders pitching with the bass drum as the band fell into the chorus. Anya was right, Georgi came in a hair too late – sounded like he was having a hard time jumping to C Minor. “ _You were never on my wrist. You were only on my lips._ ” Ugh, fuck it. Now he was too busy thinking about the music, rather than how it felt running through him. 

The Russian Punk grit his teeth, eyes tight shut as he concentrated on ignoring Georgi. “ _We’ll never be a perfect pair. Your keys will never fit these locks_.” Fuuck, he could _hear_ Georgi trying to play catch up, rather than just skip a note and join them in the right fucking place. “ _I can stand alone. I will stand alone._ ” He tapped his foot to count out Georgi’s solo arpeggio, emphasizing the determined, independent voice in the song. “ _Solitude is my strength_ ”

Thank fucking god the second verse was mostly Mila, as she broke through as the dominant, solo voice. Georgi faded away to the base chords while their bassist found her confidence, her voice. Yuri wiped at his forehead before launching into the next set of lyrics. “ _You were an angel’s arrow to the chest._ ,” Yuri sang, quieter to match the lone bass, his free hand gripping at his stretched-out t-shirt. “ _And fate is a lie_.” He let go of the fabric, and clasped both sets of fingers around the mic. “ _Destiny’s worth shit.”_

“ _So I refuse, I refuse, I refuse to compromise_ ,” Yuri continued, his voice growing with each repetition, in parallel with Anya. “ _I’m the one left standing._ ” Thank fuck it was just him and Anya now. “ _And that’s the way I like it_.” He was pretty sure Georgi’d lied earlier when he said he’d been practicing. “ _But we debate, desire, decay, and then we do it again_ ” 

Yuri braced himself for the second round of the chorus, shoulders about his ears as he waited for Georgi to fuck it up—Ah, there he went, missing the drop into C Minor again. “ _You were never on my wrist. You were only on my lips_.” Jesus Christ, and he still hadn’t figured out how to fucking get back in time with them. “ _We’ll never be a perfect—_

“STOP, stop, stop.” Yuri held one hand up and waved around to the rest of his bandmates. One at a time they fell away, Mila the last on the drums. The Russian Punk turned an accusatory glower at Georgi, who wilted a little beneath it.

“Anya’s right, you’re the one coming in late on the chorus. Do you even know how to count to four? Because it’s not that fucking hard, Georgi,” he snipped, pulling out one earplug so he could hear whatever weakass excuse the guy had. 

Georgi opened his mouth to answer his question, and then thought better of it. “Sorry, Yuri,” he apologised with a sheepish smile. “I dunno’ what’s up with me. I mean, I was fine before. I just, ah, lost it, I guess.” 

“Well, you’d better find it then,” Yuri rumbled, aiming a critical finger at the guitarist. “It’s our last gig in Russia on Friday, so don’t fuck it up or I swear to god.” Yuri shot him a pointed glower. 

“Why don’t we run through the first verse at half speed?” Anya interjected. “Then once we’ve nailed it, try again at the usual tempo?”

Yuri made no effort to hide his eye roll, and uttered a compliant sigh. “Fine, fine. We can baby Georgi.” Part of him knew full well he was just in a pissy mood because of Victor. The other part of him refused to acknowledge that Victor could make him pissy, and therefore refused to give a shit about Georgi’s fuck-up. “Just make sure it’s right by Thursday’s practice.”

“From the start of verse one, then?” Mila prompted, already clacking her drumsticks together as a lead-in.

“ _Love is a friendship caught on fire.”_

_“A flame hot and fierce.”_

_“Two souls, one beating heart.”_

_“But eventually it dies_

_Dies_

_**Dies.** ”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left a comment and kudos'd the last chapter. I'm really happy this weird-ass mash-up of soulmates and bands tickled your fancy, because I love writing it so much. Yurio is a never ending source of delight. Apologies for the long time between the first chapter and this one, I had a tough time settling into my job and had a couple of late nights the past few weeks. I'm hoping to get on a tight schedule from now on as far as updates go.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the wonderful tulkasebore for taking the time to pre-read, proof, and beta this chapter. I'm glad all of the song names gave you a good laugh, especially at this time. 
> 
> This chapter (actually, this whole fic) is for Mimi, tulkasebore's sweet little cat. Mimi passed away recently, which was quite a shock to everyone. All my best thoughts, love, and biggest hugs go toward her and the family.

_“The universe just fucking knows when souls are wired to wreck the world together.” –Erin Van Vuren_

Friday evening, and their last gig in Moscow before _The Unbroken_ left the country to start their official tour. Yuri hip-checked the van door behind him and took in the dingy bar entrance, nestled against warn brick and graffiti. As much as Yuri had despised heartfelt sentiment, he couldn’t help nostalgia and excitement that fluttered over his chest. As small as _Medusa_ was, it was the first venue they ever played at; a tiny, hole-in-the-wall place crammed between a ‘salon’ for gentlemen and a Chinese restaurant. 

Yuri elbowed Medusa’s door open, clutching two stacked cardboard box over the threshold and up the stairs. Oh _yeah_ ,Victor said he ‘organized the merchandise to be delivered’. What he _failed_ to mention was he’d only arranged for one guy to set it up. 

“ _Fuck_ Victor,” Yuri grumbled, using his aggravation toward his band manager to hoist the box up and into the upstairs bar area. Christ, he fucking hated legwork. You’d think t-shirts and shit wouldn’t weigh that much, but god. 

He dumped the box on a table off to the side, and swiped his rainbow wrist sweatband against his forehead once his hands were free. “Alright, I’m done with this shit.” Yuri straightened his bomber jacket with the leopard print and the leather sleeves, looking over his shoulder to try and spot his bandmates.

As he scanned, he drank in the space and got stuck on the aesthetics. He loved this place; the scuffed, wooden floors that suffered one too many spilled drinks over the years, the ugly burgundy walls and lined with posters of gigs gone by, the ceilings with questionable stains. The stage was slightly elevated, with a moat of speakers aimed out at the audience. With the bar and the stage taking up a lot of the room, the actual space was intimate and cozy. Yeah, a real place you could lose your hearing in. It was grunge, and it was so fucking good.

Yuri inhaled deep and slow, and offered the world a rare smile as the rest of his band trooped in with the remaining boxes. Yeah, he was going to miss this place, even if it was only for a short while. 

“Ugh, thank fuck that’s done,” Mila grunted as she put her box down on the table. In the same breath she turned to Yuri and thumbed towards the bar. “Pre-gig shots?” She asked it like it was a question, but it was pretty much tradition at this point. 

“Really?” Yuri lobbed a swift eyeroll at her, but approached the bar anyway. “Can’t it wait until _after_ the sound check?” He grumbled, resting his elbows against the bar top with his back against its edge, slouching in his skin tight black jeans as he appreciated the venue. 

Mila wrinkled her nose and flagged down the bartender. “Yeah, yeah, Victor. Keep your pants on, we’ll get to it. Georgi! Anya!” Mila waved the rest of the band over. 

As much as he hated to admit it, the responsible part of his brain reminded him that Victor left him in charge of the band’s alcohol intake. But screw it, if Victor cared that much about making sure they weren’t drunk, he’d be here. He uttered a loath sigh. “Sure, but not that cheap, crappy vodka.” Yuri pulled a face. “That shit gave me the worst hangover.”

Anya snickered and gave their youngest band member a small push from his other side as she approached. “Pft, you just can’t hold your liquor, _Yurochka_.” 

He bristled, eyeing the four shots that were poured. “No, I just can’t hold _shitty_ liquor, there’s a difference.” Yuri, indignant, tossed a long lock of hair behind his ear at Anya. “I’ll drink you under the table any day.”

“Sure, we’ll see about that,” she simpered, holding up a glass of clear liquid to Yuri before she downed it. She shook her head, a motion that travelled to her shoulders as the hard alcohol went down. “I mean, in the meantime I can have yours if you like, it’s no problem.” She dangled a second shot in front of her, a mischievous sparkle in her eye.

Yuri glowered and seized the glass from her. Without breaking eye contact, he downed the contents and slammed the empty vessel onto the bar. “Fuck your, ‘I can’t handle my vodka’,” he scoffed, turning to make his way back to the stage for the sound check. 

Once he was sure he had his back to Anya and Mila, he let his face give in to the alcoholic sting. He scrunched his nose and forehead as the heat stuck in his throat. Ugh, god that shit was nasty. “Alright,” he motioned to the sound guy standing by and swallowed the hoarse croak that betrayed the burn. “Let’s do this.”

Yuri stepped up onto the stage and wrapped his hand around the microphone resting in its stand. He adjusted it upwards a few inches, lips hovering close to the metal casing. “Check, check. Check,” the Unbroken’s lead singer spoke, maintaining fixed eye contact with the guy behind the sound board. “Just a touch louder, I want to hear myself over Anya and Georgi’s back-up wailing. Check. Check. Ok, perfect.” 

Yuri stuck a thumbs up out at the sound guy and turned to his band. “You guys. Get the fuck up here and test out your shit,” he grumbled into the microphone, watching his bandmates stand around the bar. Ugh, everyone was so god damn lazy. “I still need to do my vocal warm-ups.”

“Fine, fine,” Mila smiled so sweet at Yuri and sauntered up to the stage and past him with a wink. “You’re the boss.”

Yuri wished she was kidding. As the youngest, he shouldn’t have to tell grown ass adults what to do, yet here he was. He met her whimsy with a surly glower. “Yeah, well if I am, maybe next time we do the sound check _before_ we get drunk,” he muttered, his murmur carrying through the speakers.

Mila met his snark with a quick drum solo. “Sorry, what?” She grinned, cocking her head at the young man.

“I said—“ As soon as he opened his mouth, Mila did another run on the drums. In response, Yuri levelled his heaviest ‘oh, I am _so_ not impressed’ scowl at her. “Hah hah, very fucking mature.” Yuri whipped his head toward the bar, messy bun following behind with a violent bounce. “Georgi! Anya! Get you asses up here.”

The two of them didn’t need telling twice. With all four of them assembled, Yuri watched Anya tune with a hawk’s eye. The last thing they needed was another tuning disaster. On her other side, Georgi practiced silent arpeggios to warm up his fingers.

As they got ready, a few early birds filtered into bar area. For the most part, Yuri ignored their awkward gawping and the mutters of ‘Should we go up and say hi?’. To be honest, he didn’t have the time of day for fans, much to Victor’s annoyance. The old man always lectured him about how important fans were. But right now, Yuri cared more about making sure they were pitch perfect so they could put on a good fucking show before leaving Russia behind. 

Anya on the other hand had already struck up a conversation with one of them while she finished tuning. Well, whatever, as long as she didn’t sound like shit, Yuri didn’t care who she spoke to. Georgi, on the other hand, watched the two of them out of the corner of his eye. Huh, jealousy wasn’t restricted to overprotective, bonded idiots. Idiot being the operative word in that sentence. If Georgi couldn’t see how smitten Anya was with him, he was thick as shit. True, they weren’t marked, but who was? _Bonds were rare, bonds were treasures, bonds were sacred._

Yuri scoffed at the thought and turned on his heel. “I’m going to go do my warm-ups and get ready,” Yuri announced, content that he could leave without everything going to hell. He made a beeline for the bathroom. “Mila, order me a cup of peppermint tea, not too hot.” 

He shut the door behind him and took in his reflection, the dark clothes offset by a casual mess of blond hair. Yuri raised his hands to his hair tie to play with his bun a little until it sat right, with several locks splayed over his shoulders. He then rolled his shoulders and corrected his posture, chin high. He relaxed his jaw and used the heels of his palm to massage his cheeks several times. 

He rolled his shoulders and gave his frame a shake to get the tension out before starting vocal exercises, working through each vowel through a couple of scales. Then he started low in his stomach, slurring up to the top of his range with one or two, “Whoooooo!”s. God, puberty was such a bitch. He used to have no problem in choir, then his balls dropped and he had to learn how to use his body all over again.

“Yes!” Yuri snipped at a knock on the door. 

“It’s Mila,” she called through the door. “Your tea’s on the bar when you’re ready, we’re on in fifteen.”

Holy shit, she sounded halfway organized. “Sure, sure, give me a second,” Yuri spoke at the door before turning back to his reflection. “Where she sits she shines, and where she shines she sits. Where she sits she shines, and where she shines she sits. Send toast to ten tense stout saints’ ten tall tens. Send toast to ten tense stout saints’ ten tall tents.” He sucked in a breath deep and low. “A proper cup of coffee from a proper copper coffee pot. A proper cup of coffee from a proper- 

_Fucking what_?” Yuri growled at another knock on the door.

“Did Mila tell you we’re almost on?” Georgi hesitated. “Also, there’s kind of a line for the bathroom.”

Yuri exhaled and shook his head, ignoring the twitching vein in his forehead. “Fine, fine, I’m coming.” He shoved the door open and almost took out Georgi.

After downing half a peppermint tea, he navigated the through the stage, and assumed his position in front of the microphone. “Good evening,” he greeted, voice pitched low, stooped a little over the mic as he shoved ear plugs into his ears. “Thank you for coming.” Ugh, he’d never been that good at doing this whole chit-chat emcee sort of crap. 

“We’re _The Unbroken_. This is Mila on the drums.” He stretched an arm behind him, bomber jacket slipping high on his forearm. “Georgi on guitar, and Anya on bass.” One or two people gave a tiny ‘whoop!’ of support, coupled with a solitary, enthusiastic clap.

“I’m Yuri. This is actually our last gig in Moscow before we take off on tour. I think the dates are on some flyers over by the merch table over there.” Yuri waved an arm towards a corner where one man stood guard over their band shirts and posters. “So if you happen to be in the area, you can check us out. We’ll be touring with _Ellips_. Apparently they’re really good, so look them up even if you can’t make it. Uh, what else…”

Yuri looked from Mila, Georgi, to Anya, and then turned into the microphone again. “Oh yeah, our shirts and shit are on sale over there too.” He waved a dismissive hand back at the table. “This first one is _Tyto Alba_.” 

The small crowd erupted at the same time Mila counted them into their first song. Yuri closed his eyes and took a breath and waited for Georgi to give them the two bars of intro before he launched into the first verse. “ _Keep your eyes on the night,_ ” Yuri sang, starting low and quick to match the tight 8/8 time signature, the lyrics syncopated against the steady rhythm. “ _Keep your eyes on the night_. 

_I say_ ,” Yuri kept his focus on the audience, eyes narrowed, intense, as his volume grew. “ _Keep your eyes on the night. Those dark wings are coming for you._ ” Yuri dropped a step backward as Anya and Georgi took over with two bars of frantic staccato, a musical analogy for gunshots before dropping into the chorus.

“ _Tyto Alba, dressed to kill. Tyto Alba, hun-ter in the sky._ ” Yuri pressed his rainbow sweatband to his forehead, stepping back into the microphone. “ _Tyto Alba, will shoot you down. Tyto Alba, will end you_ ” Yuri thrust one index finger out at the crowd. “I’ll see you at sundown!” He promised, switching into his speaking voice to yell the line at the crowd.

The audience erupted as the band fell into the second verse. “ _Keep your eyes on the night, keep your eyes on the night_ ” God, he loved the collective buzz in the air, the eyes on him. Sure, he couldn’t handle fans on an individual basis, but when you put them together in a room the air turned electric. People moshed in the front, mouthing well-loved lyrics at them in time to the music. 

It filled Yuri up, high on the energy, the adoration, the sheer joy that their music inspired in people. _Tyto Alba_ faded with Georgi’s last chord, which bled into screams and whoops from the audience. Music gave way to the static hum of amps, and background tuning as Georgi fiddled with his guitar.

Pft, great, that meant it was Yuri’s cue to stall while he got his shit together. “You know, some people ask us why we’re _The Unbroken_ ,” he began right up against the microphone. “Because surely something ‘Unbroken’ just means it’s fixed, it’s fine. I guess that’s kind of the point,” he rambled, shrugging a shoulder. “But you hear people talking about how they’re not whole as an individual.” Yuuri’s free hand went to his own chest, flat over his tight t-shirt. “We’re always seeking out our ‘other half’ to make us complete, even though the odds of finding that someone are fucking ridiculous.”

Someone in the audience gave him a whoop as he continued. “But for us, we _are_ whole, we were _born_ complete. There’s nothing to fix, so we are – we _all_ are – unbroken to begin with, which is what this next song is about.” Yuri cast a sidelong glance at Georgi, who gave him a thumbs up. Fucking finally. 

With a nod to the band launched into _Guilty Cupid_ to a collection of shrieks. Yuri rolled his shoulders, assuming a power stance over the microphone, as he waited for Georgi to finish his intro.

“ _Love is a friendship, caught on fire_ ,” Yuri sang, both hands cupped around the microphone, right knee jumping along to the beat. He closed his eyes as he fell into the rhythm, and the lilting bass line that complemented its partner. “ _A flame hot and fierce. The butterflies and easy smiles_.” He opened his eyes a crack, scanning the audience with piercing blues. “ _Two souls, one beating heart, but eventually it dies._

_Dies._

_**Dies**_.” Georgi hit a G minor with each repeated word, then launching into a small guitar solo. While he was on form, Yuri still felt nervous about the impending chorus. They’d cracked it in practice, but who knew if the nerves, or whatever, would get to him. 

For the time being, Yuri relaxed as Georgi took center stage, leaning into the drum beat with dismissive nonchalance. He tapped his foot to the beat, and glanced at the moshers in the front losing their shit to Georgi’s quick fingering. 

As his guitar solo neared an end, he turned a shoulder away from the audience for a moment to look back at Mila and Anya, then giving Georgi a nod to wrap up his spot. Their guitarist nodded, fingers flying up the fretboard before ending on some vicious vibrato. The audience went nuts, a good hundred and fifty people crammed into a space that comfortably housed one hundred. 

“ _Black ash around my feet and in my mouth_ ,” Yuri continued over the top of the whoops, whipping back around to the audience with his best surly expression. He swayed to the beat as Mila’s drumming ramped into the chorus. “ _We desire, debate, decay, and then we do it again._ ”

Here it came, Georgi’s rough patch, the last bar before he dropped into C minor. Yuri found himself holding his breath, gaze wandering the crowd. Would Georgi make it? Would he—

What. _thefuck_

Yuri gasped as he felt something punch him in the chest from the inside out. The lead singer wobbled backwards, slightly doubled over. Warmth, hot, tight, so tight. It started around his sternum and bled into his bones. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathed, time suspending, golden, soft, so, so gentle. Perfection, indulgent and flawless. For a precious second the music fell away, the bar fell away, all that remained was the sea of faces staring back at him, moving in slow motion to silence. 

Then it was over, and reality slammed into him. “Jesus Christ,” he choked, scrambling to catch up with his band. His ears brought him back to the chorus, jumping into the rhythm, even though he was pretty sure he’d just had something like a heart attack. “ _We’ll never be a perfect pair_ ,” he began, confidence lost., his words lacking their usual conviction “ _Your keys will never fit these locks._ ” 

Yuri wet his lips and willed that burning ire he possessed for _Guilty Cupid_ , and society’s expectation. He screwed his eyes shut and belted into the mic, “ _I can stand alone, I will stand alone. Solitude is my strength_ ” But god, it was hard to hate when everything felt so—so-- _warm_. 

The corner of his eyes pricked tight and hot as the feeling overwhelmed, flowing from the bud in his chest outwards, coiling around his insides. There, it took hold, and settled, safe and complete, so pure and flawless it made him want to laugh and cry with weak relief. 

As _Guilty Cupid_ came to a close, he felt Georgi’s worried hand on his shoulder. He didn’t need to hear the accompanying question. “I’m fine,” Yuri shook his head, speaking away from the mic with one hand covering the metal casing. He hoped no one saw him swipe his wristband across each eye to wipe away any tears. He definitely wasn’t fine. Something was very, very wrong. But like hell he’d take a break at the start of the show. He shook off Georgi’s hand. “Next up is _Superficial Dreams_ ,” he spoke to the audience to another wave of appreciation. 

For the rest of their set, his body seemed to calm the fuck down, although he couldn’t shake the low-grade buzzing in his head. That was the last time he let Mila order him that nasty, cheap ass vodka. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t tap into the usual raw feeling he unleashed into _Dead and Gone_. It was beyond frustrating. 

“Thank you for coming out this evening,” Yuri spoke into the microphone as the last chord of their final song rang out. The place erupted, but Yuri couldn’t bathe in the adoration. Anxiety circled around his conscious. “It’s been a pleasure performing for you. Have a good night and get home safely.” 

On your average night, Yuri hung around with the rest of the band at the bar while they drank. He might join them for one or two, then he’d go home and sleep. Tonight, he hopped off of the stage, pushing and side-stepping through the crowd towards the exit. 

He broke out into the street, lit by one street lamp and the neon hum of the Chinese restaurant next door. The lightest drizzle caught his cheeks. A car whizzed past on the damp streets. But otherwise, it was pretty quiet aside from a couple of people some feet away huddled around their cigarettes. 

Ignoring the strangers, Yuri drank in the deep, quiet air until his lungs were full, and then exhaled, slow and with purpose. As he did, he felt the ground settle beneath him, his reality stable and solid.

A second set of steps bustled out the of _Medusa’s_ back door. “Yuri? Are you okay?” Mila appeared at his side, one arm slung around his shoulders.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he grumbled, looking down the street and away from Mila. 

He felt Mila’s sceptical pout in her tone. “Mmkay, cause you kind of just ran off,” she pointed out, giving his shoulder a tiny squeeze. “The last time you did that after a gig you had stomach flu.” 

When Yuri refused to comment, she continued, her voice lightening up a little. “Cause if you’re going to have violent projectile vomiting or worse on tour, you should probably tell us.” 

“I’m not going to puke and shit everywhere, don’t worry,” Yuri snipped back, running his hand across the flat of his chest, insulted that she would even suggest his body was capable of such vicious functions. He sniffed and shrugged her hand off. “I think I just had a muscle spasm or something, or strain from all the stress you fuckers put me through. I’m fine now.” 

 

“ _Stress_ ,” Mila snorted. “You’re only eighteen, Yuri. Chill out. You sound like you’re forty-five.” She pulled Yuri in close and ruffled his hair with rough affection. 

Yuri ducked underneath her palm without success, harrumphing at the onslaught. “Eighteen, and yet I’m still more mature than you, you old hag,” he retorted, which elicited a cackle from his drummer. 

“Sure you are.” She let go of their youngest band member and grinned. “If you’re so adult, join us for a drink upstairs, then? Last one before we take o~off,” she offered in what she probably thought was a tempting singsong. 

“No, I’m going to take off and have an early night,” he declined, scratching at an itch on his hand. “You guys have fun, though, and I’ll see you at home, y’know, unless you end up somewhere else this evening.” He pulled down the sleeves of his jacket against the slight chill in the air. “And if you don’t make it home, at least make sure you get to the airport on time.”

“ _the airport on time_ ,” Mila chimed in at the same time with a giggle. “Of course, of course. You worry too much, Yuri.” She gave him a nudge. “We’ll be there nice and early to take advantage of all the duty free.”

Yuri scoffed, shook his head, and shoved his hands in his bomber jacket pockets. “I wouldn’t need to do this shit if Victor actually did his fucking job,” he muttered, giving Mila a solitary wave. “I’ll see you later.”

****

While everyone else celebrated with booze, and possibly in Mila’s case female companionship, Yuri treated himself to a nice, long shower. The warm water flowed over his shoulders and down his back, the gentle hiss easy on his ears. In the background, _De' miei bollenti spiriti_ commanded the bathroom, fast, delicate, and proud. “ _Lunge da lei per me non v’ha diletto!_ ,” he sang along going easy on his throat after a night of thrashing his voice. “ _Volaron già tre lune._ ”

Yuri killed the water, the hiss dying back to soft drips alongside the echoing aria that dropped away to a solitary voice and slow, purposed chords. He grabbed a fluffy towel and dragged it across his form, before hitching it around the waist. “ _Dacché la mia Violetta, Agi per me lasciò, dovizie, onori._ ” His singing dropped back into humming as he grabbed another towel and mussed it through his wet hair. 

God, that really hit the spot. Everything was pretty much perfect, aside from this bug bite he’d picked up. He scratched at his arm, the itch aggravated under his hot shower. 

The aria picked up again as it climaxed as Yuri padded over to the bathroom sink to brush his teeth. He hummed with the tune as he scrubbed, tilting his jaw this way and that to get all the hard to reach places. He spat, gargled a cap of mouth wash, swished, and spat again. “ _De’ miei bollenti spiriti_ ,” he murmured as he leaned in close to his reflection, peering at an oncoming pimple. Of fucking course he’d have a breakout right before touring. That was so fucking typical. 

He put a hand out for his facial cleaner and caught sight of his arm in the mirror. Jesus, what sort of bite _was_ that? Yuri turned over his wrist and brought it up to inspect his skin in detail. His whole wrist had turned a hot, red colour, with a purplish tinge as if it were the beginnings of a bruise. Christ. Yuri poked at it, watching the pink turn white for a second. It didn’t _hurt_ like a bruise.

In the background, the aria played on, reflecting off the bathroom tiles in sweet Italian.

_My passionate spirit_  
And the fire of youth  
She tempers with the  
Gentle smile of love!  
Since the day when she told me  
“I want to live, faithful to you alone!”  
I have forgotten the world  
And lived like one in heaven. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Apologies for the delay in updating, work kicked my ass the past couple of weeks. Things are still a bit rocky this upcoming week, but should calm down after that. Calm *should* mean more time for writing and less time for stressing out.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely people who left kudos, and dropped a comment. It was great hearing your thoughts on how it's all going, and was a phenomenal motivator. Thank you also to tulkasebore for being, as always, a fantastic beta who leaves the best comments throughout the document. I am very fortunate to have your time and wit on hand, despite the distance. 
> 
> P.S, Someone asked me for some sort of reference for The Unbroken. If you're curious, I think RVIVR's Paper Thin and Big Lie (from memory) are good points. RVIVR are a funky queer modern punk band that you can look up on the old YouTube.
> 
> Also, please excuse my flagrant disregard for drinking ages. I realised Kazakhstan's drinking age is 21 after I established Yurio's age, so the fault is mine for not researching beforehand.

_Vrrrrzzt_

“Muh…”

_Vrrrrzzt_

“Muh!”

_Vrrrrzzt_

“Fuuck!” Yuri rustled in his tousled sheets, and slapped a hand around for his phone. After several false starts, he grabbed it and slid his thumb over to ‘sleep’. With that, he buried his cheek in his pillow. God damn fucking alarms.

Several strands of stray hair landed on his cheek, tickling with each out-breath. He blew twice in an attempt to dislodge them, but of course they fought back and teased his nose. Yuri grumbled and lifted a hand to brush them away. He cracked an eye open when his fingers failed to grasp them, and caught sight of purple on his wrist. 

Hair tamed, he closed his eyes and nuzzled into his downy pillow. Eh, bruises weren’t uncommon after a gig night, whether it was doing stupid things when drunk, knocking into things in a crowded room, or just lugging around gear. Funny, Yuri yawned, he didn’t remember hurting himself, _and_ he’d stayed sober all of last night. 

He rolled over, rearranging himself in the tangled sheets. He hummed as he settled into just the right spot. Maybe he’d bumped himself pushing past the crowd of people, although he didn’t remember getting hurt. Perhaps the box of merchandise dug into his skin hard enough? But he’d worn his bomber jacket.

Mm, jackets. Right, he had to finish packing for this trip... later, he promised himself. Yuri let out a gratified sigh, content with that pledge of postponed responsibility. He could stay half-awake in bed for at least five minutes, maybe ten, and not have to rush; the freedom of wasting time relaxed into his sleepy frame. Yeah, later. After he’d showered and shoved food in his face, then he’d finish cramming black skinny jeans, hoodies, tight band tees, and leopard print into his suitcases. 

 

His phone chose that very moment to interrupt his sweet self-assurances and delayed liability. 

Ugh, time to actually do shit. 

Yuri’s groan rumbled from deep in his diaphragm. “Mother _fucker_.” Yuri grabbed his phone, and aimed a hot glower at the traitor. He killed the repetitive _vrrrrzzt_ for the last time and drew his lazy frame to standing, sheet draped around his shoulders in a forlorn bid to remain in bed. 

He grumped and tossed his phone onto his bedside table. As he brought his hand up to cradle the sheet around his shoulders, he caught a better glimpse of the bruise. A frown tugged at his lips, as he tilted his wrist upward for closer inspection. The lavender bruise looked awfully perfect and crescent shaped.

Weird.

Curious, he let the sheet fall away so he could poke at the mark. He dragged his thumb against his skin to watch the internal bleeding wax and wane with pressure, to feel the pain ebb and flow—only, it didn’t hurt, and the colour remained true, like a tattoo. Only, he was almost one-hundred per cent sure the band hadn’t gone out for pre-tour tattoos last night.

…Weirder.

A memory nagged at the corners of his conscience, a dusty but familiar memory; a feeling that he’d seen this sort of thing before, but on someone else’s skin. Older skin, with clear, sharp, colour, now complicated with worn lines and time. In response, his desperate thumb rubbed at the mark—the _bruise_ in denial. 

Yuri turned on his heel toward his dresser. He was jumping to rash, irrational conclusions. He shuffled into a robe before padding into the bathroom, the rush of morning vitriol now muted and sober with suspicion. 

Hot water hit his shoulders and dispelled the knotted tension there, soothing his tousled thoughts. He closed his eyes and pictured the blemish beneath his thumb as droplets pattered against his neck and collarbone. He replayed the moment, focusing on how his skin yielded under his thumb, what the pressure felt like. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced poking it hurt a little – that the spot was shallow, inconsequential internal bleeding; it’d go away in a day or two. 

It was a bruise, for fuck’s sake.

Still, the morbid curiosity needled his wandering conscience; a gnawing, consistent hum in the background that surfaced whenever he wasn’t paying attention. Yuri bowed his head a little under the warm stream, the shower’s hiss falling faint alongside his own thoughts. What if he wasn’t imagining things? What if this was actually happening?

He shut off the water and escaped into the unusually quiet bathroom. There were no beautiful arias, just the echoic drips on the shower floor, and of cloth against his skin as he secured his towel around his waist; neither of which could drown out his persistent brooding.

It was _probably_ just a bruise. 

“Shitting fuck.” Yuri cursed under his breath, resting his hand over the tight anxiety in his chest in an attempt to calm himself. He felt the rhythmic, quickened thud of a frightened heart. In response, he sucked in a slow, long breath, and let it out in an even, measured exhale, followed by another until he felt calm. His pulse fluttered before it eased into a steady, resting beat. 

There was no reason to freak out right away. He didn’t even know the basics of Marks, aside from what he’d learned from Grandpa when he was a kid. Even then, he didn’t recall many of the specifics. Yuri turned his attention to the door separating his room from the bathroom, where his laptop lay waiting. 

He padded back into the bedroom, and sat down on the mattress, computer resting on his thighs. If he armed himself with _some_ knowledge, he might be able to rule out the whole Mark thing – or not-Mark thing. 

He ignored the anxious patter in his chest as he opened his web browser and tapped ‘i think I have a soulmark’ into the search engine. 

‘I think I have a soulmark’.

Yuri withered a little under the admission, wincing and averting his eyes away from his possible reality. Instead, he forced himself to open five or six new tabs of promising hits to at least get some sort of concrete confirmation. Of course, he _said_ concrete, but the answers he needed couldn’t be found in generic official websites, paid for ‘Find your soulmate’ ads, or other pop psych crap. Granted, the answer he needed was confirmation that he _wasn’t_ cursed. Of the answers he found they were frighteningly…

 _affirming_.

Yuri opened up another Yahoo answer pages titled ‘How do soulmarks work exactly?’

_How do soulmarks work exactly?_

_I was at the shopping mall the other day and had like this sudden intense feeling – hot and dizzy, like I thought I was about to faint or something. I thought it was just low blood sugar, but the next morning there was this weird blue-ish squiggle on my arm. I’m pretty sure it’s a soulmate mark thing. But, like how does it actually work? How and why did I get it? Most importantly, can I use it to find the person?_

_Follow. 10 Answers._

Fuck, that actually sounded close to what happened the other night; yet another point for ‘this _thing_ on your wrist is a Mark’ (that made it five to zero). Yuri dragged the flat of his palm over his bare sternum and back again, over the epicentre of those warm, light feelings from the show; the hot, white burn, suspended for eternity within the space of one second. Concern settled low in his stomach as battled onwards to the answers. 

_**Best Answer:**  
Congrats, and welcome to the soulmate club! That does, indeed, sound like a soulmark – although sorry to hear you didn’t figure out who it was._

_Fun fact if you don’t know: These suckers, as far as I’ve researched, work via proximity. I.e., they start when you’re close to your other half. Experts cite that as the main reason for soulmates being so rare; although it’s becoming more common with the internet and social media._

_Long story short: When you meet your destined other half, you’re ‘triggered’, which is that feeling you described. Then, you develop your mark. It’s kind of as simple as that. It sucks if you happen to miss the person when it happens – which occurs more often than you think._

_Sadly, there’s no mystical hot/cold type function built into them to track them down. However, you should do a search for soulmate websites in your area. Hopefully your soulmate will find you there if you put an advert up. That’ll be the best way to track them down._

_Good luck! :)_

_Source(s):  
A lot of painful googling._

_Warren – 8 years ago_

Wait, you could completely miss your soulmate? Yuri wrinkled his nose and re-read the answer. Well, that was kind of a relief. Maybe he’d never see this person ever again, and he could just go on with his life. 

Feeling a little more optimistic about his future, he went to the next tab to learn more about this thing on his skin. Some official-looking FAQ on a soulmate website. 

_Can someone please explain what my soulmark is about?_

_I’ve been with my soulmate for the past couple of weeks and I couldn’t be happier. I just noticed mine and hers are a different colour than other people’s? I’ve been googling and there are a lot of teal and purples, but mine is indigo blue. Does this mean something?_

_**Best Answer:**  
Whoa! That’s awesome, I’ve never seen indigo before in person. But I think I might be able to help? There are a couple of official-looking websites with explanations of colour markings. The easiest ones to denote are purples and yellows, but there are also teals and a whole other spectrum of colours if you have a google. _

_The best I can tell is teal are like, besties or squish-y type relationships – really strong platonic relationships. Blues, I’ve heard, are romantic relationships without sexual attraction? The one I’m most certain on is purple shades, which are romantic/sexual relationships--_

“Fucking _shit_ ,” Yuri groaned, flopping backwards against his pillows; the laptop slid onto the sheets, temporarily abandoned. He didn’t need to read any more than that. His mark. The _worst_ of all colours. Purple. Romantic. Fucking _romantic_. Ugh, he could deal with a platonic thing. “ _Fuck_.” Yuri grumped, rubbing at his face with the heels of his palms. The romantic thing, on the other hand, was a joke. 

“Yuuuri?” Mila called from behind his ajar door with a soft knock. “Are you okay? You’re swearing a lot,” she spoke, peaking her nose around the door crack. “And you didn’t even drink last night.”

“Mila!” Yuri grabbed for his towel to make sure it was secure, and shot her a glower. “Jesus, knock first, will you?” 

“I did!” She protested, stepping into the room, dressed in house shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Her hair was bed-shaped, last night’s mascara decorating her under eyes.

Yuri wrinkled his nose and closed his laptop lid to hide his search browser. “Well, wait until I’ve said, ‘yes you can come the fuck in’ at least,” he grumbled, protective hands resting atop the stickers coating the back of his computer. 

She yawned and rubbed at one eye, smearing black further across her cheek. “Anyway, I feel like shit. I’m going to have a shower and make something greasy for breakfast. You want some?” 

Yuri cocked his head to the side as he considered eating. The whole soulmate thing, however, killed his appetite with low-grade anxiety. “Just coffee if you’re making it.”

“I’ll put on a pot,” Mila smiled, combing her fingers through her dishevelled locks as she left Yuri in peace.

Alone, Yuri flopped back onto his pillows with a harsh sigh. He lifted his arm to study the nasty, traitorous blemish on his wrist. God, if only he’d skipped last night’s gig. If they’d not played, maybe he never would’ve come across this person. As he turned his arm, he observed the faint lavender, lilac in contrast to his own skin. Weird, in this moment, almost anyone else in the world would be _happy_ right now. Yuri, on the other hand, experienced a mix of nausea and a hope that he might never meet this person again.

He pulled his computer into his lap, resting against his raised thighs so he could type while reclined. Hell, maybe there _was_ a way to erase it all, like it never happened. Call it morbid optimism, but he opened up a new search and tapped into it: 

_Can you get rid of soulmarks?_

Yuri opened a website for some sort of soulmate forum help type thing, and was directed to a conversation chain.

_**Finnell089:** So unfortunately, my soulmate passed away kind of suddenly about a year ago. I guess I thought I’d have come to terms with it by now? But every time I look at my mark, I still turn into a huge mess. I know this is kind of drastic, and I’m expecting to get a fair amount of hate for asking. But is there a way to get rid of my soulmark? I just can’t take it anymore._

_\--Finn_

_**Sootytootie:** Ouch, sorry to hear that. I don’t know what to say other than: it really sucks, and I’d never wish that on my worst enemy. You must really be hurting. _

_As far as I’m aware, there’s no real way to get rid of them. I think some places claim they can remove them, y’know, kind of like a tattoo place. But I’ve heard they just cause intense scarring and there’s a high chance the mark will come back anyway._

_In time, your mark will fade anyway, give it another year or two – which probably doesn’t help your situation._

_Although, I do know people who have actually used tattooing to build their mark into a larger design. Maybe that’s an option? Turn it into something new?_

_\--Soots_

Yuri’s stomach became heavy with certainty. Yeah, that was pretty much what he expected, although there was some silver lining. Yuri glanced back at the spot on his wrist. Hmm, the tattoo thing might work. Just paint over it until you couldn’t even make it out anymore. He wondered if the stupid thing would be able to stand up to midnight black ink. 

Some of the tension in his gut eased with the knowledge. He had options, then. He wasn’t bound or obligated to have a soulmark, or be a soulmate. He could still be his own person, and just tattoo the shit out of any evidence. 

Yuri planted his palm over the sign. Until then, he’d hide it. 

Showered and dressed, Yuri wandered into the kitchen area and draped himself on a chair next to the island. Mila was likewise propped up on the cool marble, towel wrapped around her hair while she nibbled on a piece of cheese on toast. Her other hand nursed a cup of black coffee. 

“So, how was the rest of the night?” Yuri asked, wrapping his fingers around the free mug with ‘Worlds #1 Pain in the Ass’ emblazoned on the side. At this point he wasn’t sure who bought the mug for whom, but both applied. 

Mila’s mouth, wrapped around a piece of toast, curled upwards at the edges. “Mrf, good.” She chewed and swallowed, washing it down with coffee. “I made out with what’s her name. Not Lilya, but the other one. Big dark eyes? Long dark hair?”

Yuri shrugged a shoulder, lips pursed around his mug. Fucked if he knew.

“Oh, and you missed _Ellips_. They joined us for a drink before they took off. Apparently, they had a gig in Moscow the day before.” Mila took a mouse sized bite from her toast. “Nice guys,” she mused. “They’re going to join us for a drink when we hit Almaty. And.” Mila prodded his shoulder a couple of times. “You’re joining us. None of this primadonna ‘I’m going to go to bed early’ crap.”

Yuri grunted and pulled his coffee mug away from the poking to avoid spillage. “Fine, whatever.”

“How are you feeling after last night, anyway. Better?” She asked, easing up on him for a second, sipping at her cup. 

Better? Yuri’s stomach curdled and twisted at the thought. Ugh no, he was a million times worse. Forever. “Oh, you know. Fine,” he shrugged, lying through his teeth. Yuri’s subconscious fiddled with his favourite rainbow sweatband across his wrist, concealing his mark. Yeah, better not tell Mila, she’d just make fun of him.

“Great! Then, yes, no excuses for this evening,” she beamed, giving her bandmate’s shoulder another poke. “In the meantime, do you need to finish packing?”

“Mm.” Yuri shrugged in the affirmative as he sipped his coffee. A morning of frantic googling ate into his frantic packing, meaning he was now at frenzied levels of overdue packing. “I just need to finish throwing some shit in a bag, then I’m ready. You?”

Mila nibbled at the corner of her toast. “Same,” she replied, licking the crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “I just need to say goodbye to not-Lilya first, she’s still sleeping.”

Yuri stopped mid-slurp and shot his friend and bandmate an accusatory eyebrow. “Wait. She slept over and you can’t remember her name?” He gave her several tsks and shook his head in mock scandal. “How rude.”

The young woman smirked and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s called being available and hot, Yuri. You should try it some time. I’m serious.” She put down her half-finished piece of toast and dusted off her hands. “You need a good lay; you’re way too stressed out right now.”

He scoffed and drained his caffeinated beverage before padding over to the sink. “I’ll think about it,” he promised in a tone that suggested quite the opposite. He rinsed out his mug, giving it a quick clean before placing it on the drying rack.

“You should,” Mila persisted from the kitchen door. “Being on tour is the best excuse for a fling. No strings attached.” She waggled her fingers at him with a wicked grin. “I’ll be ready in an hour, then we can get a cab.”

“I said I’d think about it,” Yuri snipped from the sink, one hand pressed to his wrist band. “And sure. Be ready then.”

*******

After much last-minute, arguing that they’d be late, and anxious sitting in traffic, followed by more fretful waiting in security lines as boarding neared, Yuri found himself against a pillar at the terminal gate. Mila, Anya, and Georgi all sat on uncomfortable plastic chairs in his vicinity. There was Anya, hunched over her phone, tethered by her plugged-in phone charger. Georgi half-dozed against her, just as hungover as Mila but a million times worse at hiding it. 

Black hood over Yuri’s head, buried in his phone, and earbuds in his ears, meant he was dead to the outside world. The cheesy, catchy tune of his favourite J-Pop artist drowned out an announcement while he thumbed through more soulmate articles and forum posts. If whatever the flight attendant said was important, he figured someone would get him. Until then, he’d abuse himself with more browsing.

He couldn’t help it; he was increasingly obsessed with learning more about the whole thing. At the same time, reading more into it just made him feel sick. What started as a slim, optimistic hope that he was wrong, crumbled into the harsh reality of being right. 

From what he could tell, the soulmate world was complicated, messy, and hard to understand; people with more than one mark, people with different placements, sizes, colours. There was even a story about someone who had a mark and no partner – someone who’s soulmate was already dead; some poor bastard who worked at a morgue, opened the corpse fridge freezer, and felt the soul trigger thing. The resulting mark was dull, and shapeless. 

Yuri shuddered at the thought, his stomach turning at the thought – although it did give him an idea for their next single. For the time being, he brushed the story off, and turned his attention to the article in front of his nose. This article was another colour one, confirming for the tenth time his worst fears: purple soulmarks indicated romantic partners. 

Yuri bit down on a groan, his frustration easing past his lips a soft, drawn out _fuuuck_. He shot an accusatory glare at the mark hidden under his rainbow sweatband. He was ninety-nine per cent sure the lavender colour fell on the purple spectrum. Of course the universe wouldn’t let him get away with a platonic partner. Of course not. 

Christ, where was that tab he saved about Almaty tattoo artists? Because he was _definitely_ obliterating this shit off of his body at the nearest opportunity. There was no fucking way he had any romantic feelings for anyone whatsoever. There had to be some sort of mistake – he was only eighteen. That was way too early to settle down and be all domestic and gross. There were at least another ten years of poor life decisions and one-night stands in his future. Like Mila often crowed, wasn’t that the whole point of being young? Fucking up and fucking around?

“Hey.” Anya sat up straight, dislodging a startled Georgi from her shoulder, and Yuri from his melancholic thoughts. “It looks like Ellips will meet us at Kvartira.”

Yuri pulled out an earbud, the tinny chorus of _Boku no kokoro, kimi no kororo_ barely audible. “What?”

Anya held up her phone at Yuri. “ _Ellips_ , they’re going to be at Kvartiva later in the evening,” she repeated before tucking herself over her charging phone again. Georgi’s head flopped against her. “So we’ll dump our stuff at the hotel when we arrive, and then meet them there.”

“You have their number?” Yuri queried, bemused for a second before his brain provided him the answer. Ah, right. The post-gig drinks from the other night. Of course numbers were exchanged. 

“Yep, I’ll add you to the group chat,” Anya promised, gaze half-glazed as she tapped away at her phone. 

A second later, Yuri’s pocket pinged and buzzed, a text notification popping up on his screen.

Anya [12:05]: Hey guys! Just adding Yuri to the chat. 

Yuri [12:05]: Hi.

Unknown number: Hi, Yuri. Looking forward to meeting you.

Yuri [12.06]: Sure. Who’s this?

Unknown number: Otabek.

Yuri scrunched up his nose and turned from his phone to his bandmates after adding a name to the number. “Which one is Otabek?”

“The bassist,” Mila replied, moving to his side, armed with photos from the night before. She presented him with one of her and Otabek, one arm slung over his shoulder, the other raised high for a blurry drunk selfie. Sombre, dark eyes looked back at him, a stark contrast to Mila’s wide grin.

Yuri studied the photo with narrowed eyes for several seconds, eyeing up the dark jacket, his inexpressive mouth. “He looks serious.” Serious, and kind of hot, despite Mila’s bad photography. 

“Very,” Mila giggled, swiping through one or two more photos of more of the same before pocketing her phone. “But he’s cute as hell,” she shrugged, the movement laboured underneath her purple hangover hoodie. She picked up her bag as a flight attendant announced boarding for their rows. “In fact, all of them are pretty good looking. I should send Victor a thank you text for hooking them up with us.”

Yuri likewise picked up his leopard print duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder so they could line up at the gate. “If you want to keep being my friend, you’ll do no such thing,” he warned, which earned him a cackle from his bandmate.

“Trust me, when you meet them, you’ll want to do the same,” Mila promised as she held out her boarding pass and passport for the flight attendant. Yuri assumed she was just teasing him, since there was no amount of hotness that could inspire him to thank Victor for doing his job. 

Yuri likewise handed over his boarding pass and passport, following a couple of steps behind Mila. “That would require admitting that he’s actually good at his job.” An admission Yuri would only make over his cold, dead body at this point. As talented and inspiring as Victor Nikiforov was as a musician, he was a god damned flaky band manager. 

“I dunno~ They’re pretty hot~,” Mila goaded in an annoying singsong as she entered the plane and checked her ticket. “Anyway, where are you sitting, Yurochka? I’m in 28E.”

Yuri looked down at the paper in his hand, right at the ‘28D’ staring up at him. “Christ, this is going to be the longest five hours of my life.”

Mila peeked a look over her shoulder at his ticket, grabbed his arm, and beamed at him. “Oh come on, more like the five _best_ hours of your life,” she laughed, dragging him towards their seats. 

*****  
Kvartiva’s interior didn’t surprise Yuri, given it came recommended from a local punk band. The décor looked like the 70s threw up on someone’s living room, and then got into a car accident with a yard sale. The blue plaid couches clashed with the pale yellow fleur de lys wallpaper. The fireplace boasted a model ship, complemented by random photographs on the walls. Of course, the mandatory gross chandeliers with the fake candles lit the room. Yuri was kind of in love with the place.

“There they are,” Anya pointed out, waving over at a group seated on low couches in the corner. Yuri followed behind her and Mila, and Georgi, sizing up the group of four from behind. 

“Hi guys,” Mila slid onto one of the couches opposite Ellips. Of the four, the only one Yuri recognised was the bassist from Mila’s drunken selfies by his cool undercut and leather jacket. “This is Yuri. Yuri, Camran, Otabek, Ravil, and Taras,” Mila pointed out one by one along the couch. 

Yuri regrated not sticking around for that drink, being the only new face in the group. He nodded at the group, and felt four eyes give him the once over as he shuffled from the heel of one foot to the other. That, and Mila was right: they were all pretty hot. Yuri took a seat next to his infamous friend, nodding at the bassist and Camran seated opposite them. The bassist straightened as he sat down, gaze on Yuri. 

“Hi,” Yuri greeted, doing his best to appear nonchalant and casual about the whole thing. He caught Otabek’s eyes, as dark and serious as in the picture. There, his attention stayed, accompanied by his best attempt at an easy-going smile. In the background, Anya ordered four pints of lager for _The Unbroken_.

“So,” Camran began, giving his swoopy dark fringe a flick to keep it from his eyes. “Mila said you weren’t feeling too good yesterday. You feeling better now?”

“Yeah, thanks. I, uh.” A day ago, he assumed it was heartburn, or a muscle spasm, or something, although that was no longer a hypothetical truth. Now, he knew it was something much more terminal. Yuri brushed a long, stray lock of hair behind an ear. “Just felt a little sick, nothing major.” He glanced up at Camran and Otabek, who was still watching him. 

“Glad to hear it,” Camran smiled before bringing his pint to his lips. “Didn’t have the chance to say this last night, but you guys are great live. I told Mila, it’s actually my first time seeing you guys, but I’ve followed _The Unbroken_ for a while.”

Yuri perked at the admission, and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Really?” Ah, now he felt a little guilty. “Victor didn’t mention that when he said he’d booked you guys.” He’d literally never heard of Ellips until Victor mentioned them, and even then he only listened to a couple of their tracks just to make sure they were good enough to tour with. 

For the record, they were pretty damn good.

Camran shrugged and put his pint down, reclining on the couch. “That’s because I didn’t have a chance to tell him. But yeah, it’s awesome that we get to play with you.”

“Likewise,” Yuri agreed with a small smile, picking up his lager as it came to him. “I like your style.” He helped himself to several mouthfuls of frosty beer and licked his lips. “How did Victor end up finding _Ellips_ , anyway? He never actually told us.” 

“He came to a gig night where we were performing a while back,” Taras piped up from the other end of the couch, sitting opposite Anya and Georgi. “Nothing too fancy.”

“Of course we took him up on it. It’s not like we’re signed on with anyone, or particularly big or anything,” Camran chimed in, grinning at Yuri from over his glass. “So we’re looking forward to playing with you guys.”

Before he could respond, Yuri found a shot of clear liquid in front of him, and aimed a glower at _The Unbroken’s_ drummer. She beamed back and waved the tips of her fingers at him. “Come on, we need to celebrate the start of our tour!”

“Are you serious, Mila. You were hungover as fuck this morning,” Yuri nagged, arching a perfect eyebrow in her direction.

His grumpy face persisted even as she draped an arm around him for a loving side-hug. “Hair of the dog. Plus, you didn’t come out with us last night.” With one arm still wrapped around him, she picked up her glass and held it out in a toast. “To a promising partnership.” 

With a trying sigh, Yuri picked up his glass and clinked it in the middle with everyone else’s. As he did, he locked eyes with the bassist seated opposite, before he tilted his head back for his shot. Yuri winced and put the empty glass down, the spicy burn hitting him right in the chest. 

“So,” Mila’s glass joined Yuri’s, her attention back on Camran and Otabek. “How long have you guys been together?” Her arm remained draped around Yuri, his scowl tucked against her shoulder. 

“Since high school for the most part,” Camran smiled, giving his swoopy fringe another flick. “But most of that was mucking around in Otabek’s parents’ garage,” he admitted, his smile broadening to a sidelong grin at their bassist. “We only started playing at places a few months ago. How did you guys get together?”

“Kind of randomly,” Mila replied, glancing at each of their members. “Georgi and Anya are together-together. Georgi and myself went to the same high school annnnd…” She trailed off as she came to Yuri, giving him another squeeze. “This little piroshky and me went to the same music classes growing up.” 

She tilted her head against Yuri’s, her red curls contrasting his fine blond locks. “We might not look it, but we’ve got the lungs of classically trained singers.”

“Really?” Otabek piped in, tilting his head at Yuri. “Interesting.”

“Yep! You should hear Yurochka’s version of _La Habanera_ , it’s captivating.” Mila put her thumb and middle finger together and kissed them in a display of satisfaction. “He sang it at one of our final performances and I almost cried.”

“And you can still hit those high notes?” Otabek turned his steady, dark gaze towards Yuri. His intense regard pulled on Yuri’s chest alongside the alcoholic warmth. 

Yuri straightened, almost oblivious to the second shot put in front of him. “For the most part,” he shrugged, glancing down at the next round of vodka. 

“I love it,” Camran gushed at Yuri as he picked up his tiny glass. “The quality of your voice is really unique to the punk rock genre.” He punctuated his sentence with another shot, followed by a face as he swallowed. “Do you still take lessons?”

Yuri followed him, knocking back his glass with another face. The burn blossomed in his throat, and sank into his chest and conscious like dying embers. “Yeah, every week with Ms. Lilia Baranovskaya.”

“Russian opera singer,” Mila explained on his behalf as she took her drink, not even batting an eyelid as it went down. “She’s amazing but god, she’s a hard ass. That’s why I stuck with drums.”

“She’s not that bad,” Yuri countered, feeling the booze relax his lips, and warm the heights of his cheeks. “As long as you practice and listen to her. That’s why she was on your ass all the time.”

Mila stuck her tongue out. “Easy to say when you’re teacher’s pet,” she teased, affection set deep into the corners of her mouth. 

“Hmm, no,” Yuri pressed an index finger to the tip of his chin in mock thought as he pretended to consider her argument. “I’m pretty sure you’re just lazy, Mila.” He washed down his retort with a gulp of lager. 

As he did, he heard the tiniest restrained chuckle and glanced over at its source. Otabek hid his smile behind half-curled knuckles, dark eyes now soft and cast toward Yuri. Yuri’s mouthful went down the wrong way, and left him in a spluttering mess. He coughed and thumped his chest to ease the alcohol down whatever tube it travelled down. 

Mila giggled next to him, and gave him a sympathetic shoulder pat. “And you said you could hold your booze,” she tsked, taking that as an opportunity to take a dainty sip from her pint, just to show off. 

“I can drink just fine,” Yuri wheezed, and took several gulps from his glass to chase down the spasm, which seemed to work. He reached for a napkin and dabbed the corners of his mouth to catch any leftover beer. 

“I dunno, it looks like you have a bit of a drinking problem to me,” she punned and ducked, narrowly avoiding a crumpled napkin in the face. 

“You’re impossible,” Yuri seethed from behind his pint. In the background, Yuri picked up Otabek’s rich chuckle, which singed the tips of his ears. He tried not to smile _too_ much in response, but the sound and the vodka dimpled his cheeks and brought a warm feeling back to his chest. 

Next to him, Mila recovered from her own laughing fit, dabbing at the corners of her smoky eye with a napkin. “Oh my god, Yuri,” she rasped. “You’re adorable.” She chased the compliment with another sip from her pint as the conversation hit a natural lull.

“So,” Camran grinned, putting down his glass for a second, flipping his fringe out of his gaze. “I didn’t have a chance to ask this last night, but where did you guys get your name from?”

Mila dabbed at her right eye again to catch the last of her welling mirth. “Oh, yeah. Maybe you missed it last night.” She cleared her throat, massaging her collar bone. “It’s kind of hard to explain, but I guess it comes from the whole soulmate thing, like…” She trailed off and picked up her frosty glass as she found the right words. 

“So many of us spend our lives seeking another piece of us, like we’re somehow incomplete, or broken alone. But the four of us truly believe we’re whole as we are, and thus… _Unbroken_.” She made a sweeping gesture at the name, pronouncing their name with appropriate dramatics. “Right, Yuri?”

All his good humour and teasing crumbled at the edges, fading like a sand castle under an inevitable tide; his stomach tight and stone heavy. Yuri shot a glance at his wristband. Right, shit. He was one of those assholes. “Yeah,” he agreed, hiding behind his beer for a second as he composed himself. 

The pleasant, boozy buzz faded a little under the question, but his mouth was still well-limbered. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “I mean, people waste so much time hunting down this mystical ‘other half’ that might be on the other side of the planet, for all they know. They spend so much time obsessed with this perfect future that they forget what’s right in front of them.” Yuri huffed, mouth torn with a scowl, spirits flaming his already unstable feelings on the matter. “But on the other hand, it fucks over those people who _do_ have a content, peaceful life, y’know? Content families and then one day, bam.” Yuri put down his pint to emphasise the point. “One parent gets a soulmark and fucks off forever.”

A pause hung on the end of Yuri’s sulky sentence, only taken up after a second by the bassist. “But what about people who’re lucky enough to find their soulmate, outside of all that? People who happen to find each other in the right place, at the right time,” he countered, soft and low against the general bar chatter.

Yuri scoffed and shook his head. “They’re usually self-centered, elitist assholes who lord it over everyone,” he muttered, ignoring his own recently discovered identity to latch onto the comeback without a second thought; accusations without any evidence, no more than jaded stereotypes. “I can’t stand them, and I can’t stand society’s stupid obsession with this shit.”

As the last syllable in that sentence left Yuri’s lips, Otabek stood up, almost upsetting Camran’s pint. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and stepped over his bandmate’s knees, taking care not to hit him whilst also trying to move as fast as possible. He only caught his toe on Camran’s leg, and then he bee-lined it towards the bathroom.

“Shit,” Mila murmured under her breath as she watched him go. “Sorry, is he, y’know…” She frowned at Camran and mouthed ‘marked’.

Camran turned his bemused countenance toward Mila as he watched his bandmate escape, and shook his head. “What? No, there’s no way in hell—He told me he _liked_ Guilty Cupid when I played it to him—“ He floundered, trying to explain the sudden switch-flip. When he failed, he placed his palm to his cheek. “Sorry, that’s weird. As long as I’ve known him, he’s never given a shit about the soulmate thing either.”

Camran sighed and took four seconds to drain the remainder of his beer. “One second, I’ll be back.” 

As he stood and chased after Otabek, Mila shot Yuri a glower. Yuri responded with a slow, guiltless blink. He was just being honest. “What?” He shrugged, and took an innocent gulp from his pint. 

“We haven’t even started the tour and you’re already fighting with our supporting act?” She questioned in a flat, matter of fact tone. “Nice one, Yuri.”

“What?” Yuri repeated, glancing at Camran’s back, thumbing in his direction. “He was the one who asked about our band name, and I was just stating my opinion.” Granted, he kind of exploded, but that was just the result of all the pent up shit going on in his life right now. Plus, just because he had a mark didn’t change his feelings towards soulmates in general. 

Mila’s only response was a somewhat disgusted look down her nose as she also finished her beer. “If he comes back, you should apologise,” she pointed out.

Yuri waited a second as he reflected upon her suggestion, sucking on the inside of his cheek. “And if he doesn’t come back?” He queried after a second’s consideration. 

“ _Apologise_ ,” she insisted, giving the tip of his nose a playful, but menacing flick.


End file.
